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    I Will Repay
    I Will Repay
    I Will Repay
    Ebook62 pages57 minutes

    I Will Repay

    By Henry Lion Oldie

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    About this ebook

    There are always three Storetzes that live in the village of Yablonez. If a fourth one is born, one of the original three has to die. If a Storetz likes someone, this person will be lucky and happy. If a Storez doesn’t like someone, misfortune, illnesses, and lethal accident will follow such a person until he dies.

    I WILL REPAY is the 11th novelette from the book “The Songs of Peter Sliadek” by Henry Lion Oldie. The entire novel consists of 12 novelettes. The book received the "Sigma-F" Grand Prize at "Sigma-F Conference" in Moscow, Russia, in 2005.
    8 hard cover editions are in Russian! Now for the first time in English!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHenry Lion Oldie
    Release dateMar 28, 2015
    I Will Repay
    Author

    Henry Lion Oldie

    HENRY LION OLDIE = DMITRY GROMOV + OLEG LADYZHENSKY Dmitry Gromov and Oleg Ladyzhensky are professional Science Fiction & Fantasy co-authors from Ukraine who write their books under the penname "HENRY LION OLDIE". From 1991 to 2012 H.L. Oldie had published more than 200 books (including reprints and translations) or more than 40 original books (first prints); as well as several anthologies. As of today H. L. Oldie had published more than 30 novels, 10 novelettes and more than 70 short stories. The total amount of all H. L. Oldie's books sold up by September 2012 is more than 1.500.000 copies. H. L. Oldie had obtained more than 30 Russian, Ukrainian and International literary awards and prizes. At “EuroCon-2006” International European SF & Fantasy Convention H. L. Oldie got a title of The Best European SF & Fantasy Writer of 2006 (ESFS Award): http://esfs.info/esfs-awards-2000.html#2006

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      Book preview

      I Will Repay - Henry Lion Oldie

      Published by K-Group at Smashwords

      Copyright 2014 H.L.Oldie

      Discover other titles by H.L.Oldie at Smashwords:

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      Henry Lion Oldie

      The Songs of Peter Sliadek

      Song Eleven

      I will Repay

      While staying in this wilderness, from which I no longer hoped to escape without damaging my mental health, I heard from the natives the strangest of stories. They said that in the Lelush mountains, in places faraway and difficult to reach, there is a certain settlement where there constantly lives one or two—and sometimes even more—peasants who command the respect of their fellow countrymen and are held in great esteem, which no reason can explain, for these lucky folk are not of noble birth and have neither power nor other merits or virtues. Having asked about the reasons of this and received the answer, I was wondering for a long time at the odd superstitions of local highlanders who haven’t drunk from the spring of enlightenment…

      From private correspondence: Karl Friedrich Hieronymus, Baron von Munchhausen from Bodenverder, to Rudolf Erich Raspe and Gottfried August Burger.

      According to faith—

      In a prayer or lewdness.

      Perhaps we’re not beasts yet—

      But are we still humans?

      You’re past—we are future.

      You’re brick walls and weekdays,

      We’re weekends and gates.

      Neru Bobovay

      A market fair was lying on the meadow—foolish and dock-tailed like a street puppy, lying with its belly up. It was pleading for caress: Who’ll scratch me? Anyone who cared obliged. Money wasn’t in esteem there, coins were used for making necklaces for maiden beauties, and so, in most cases, goods were exchanged for other goods. Cloth for ropes, cords for sheepskins, shaggy skins for ploughshare, ploughs for sickles, reap hooks for cheese, cheese for butter, while butter, after long bargaining, turned into a greasy pile of tallow candles and two belts in addition.

      People struck bargains, argued themselves hoarse, cursed to their hearts’ content furiously, their toad-like eyes popping out. Closer to the river, a Gypsy in a crimson shirt, patched all over, and without trousers, was trying to sell a mare to some sly fellow in a peaked hat pulled over his ears. The yelling rose to the skies. The mare, definitely stolen, and quite recently at that, since it still preserved healthy fatness, was spitefully baring its teeth. It bared them even when it wasn’t asked to, the bitch.

      Surely it was mocking everyone.

      Peter had nothing to barter with and nothing to buy, either. To trade a skinny belly for a scowl? It was the third week that the lutenist had been wandering in this godforsaken place, which was pressed between the spurs of Pozinoviza and Galatrava ridge—like drunk and thus indiscriminate lads press some over-aged maiden to a wattle fence. The people there were stingy and dull. They listened to songs with serious concern, as if rooting out stumps; they disapproved of music without lyrics, preferably abusive ones, supposing such wretchedness to be good-for-nothing noise. While, after listening to love canzones, they would sniff scornfully and walk away, spitting meaningfully.

      Country pipers, their voices nasal and themselves dull, just like their instruments (as well as their tunes, to tell the truth), hinted to their rival: We’ll cripple you! Off with you, short-living! At weddings, the people would drink a lot and eat still more. Instead of dancing and intoning toasts, they would beat on the table with their huge fists; at best, they would start arguing over whose gift was costlier.

      If they’d throw you a piece of bread, you were lucky.

      Permission to spend a night in a cattle shed was a holiday.

      In the last three days, they neither threw Peter anything nor let him in. On the contrary, they kicked him away, neck and crop, threatening to set their dogs loose. Mean thoughts crept into Peter’s head: should he beg, should he steal? Alas, matters with begging there were even worse than with payment for art, whereas stealing was not a craft Sliadek was skillful at, and he knew about this problem of his. If they caught him, they would beat him, break his ribs, ruin his insides. Or they would trample him to death, those misers: to crush a man for a stolen chicken was nothing for them. A sacred duty, as it

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